


Cataclysm

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Slash, angbang, slight mentions of gore and sex, slight stylistic experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For this—Mairon has no words; it happens because it must, because it should, as buds bloom because it has never occurred to them not to.</em> </p>
<p>Melkor: an exploration, through Mairon's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cataclysm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joannabelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/gifts).



He is— 

Flesh no more contains _him_ than charred, ailing grooves of earth contain a twist of lava. Rain patters and the Vala glances up from a mountaintop he might choose to crumble on the morrow; he holds out his palms in a cup, a sobbing little lake, and he wills it into something else, something harder and stronger and _his_ —frozen veins splinter and choke the lapping liquid. To the cataclysm of his laughter the skies hunch in on themselves and soft, white death flurries down in snowflakes to hush the mutiny of the world. He crunches his tarn of ice, he lets it bloody his palms until pink-tinged water sizzles down through the snow; but he does not discard it. 

Mairon does not understand why the world is not in a viscid standstill around the Vala. For, surely, _he_ is more than the world could ever be. A chisel of wind in high places, chipping the teeth of mountains; and the slow, slow dusting of forgotten scree plummeting unheeded with the scythe of each new millennium. He is the churn and roar of magma in the womb of the earth; sometimes slow, sometimes cooling in an ooze, when his touch gentles and Mairon feels like he cannot breathe (he doesn't need to— _didn't_ need to; too entangled has he become with the physical, and physical he now endures). There are other times too, a burst and a _glow_ , and if there were no hand to force him, Mairon would still drop to his knees of his own accord, a folding of his _fána_ , an expression of— 

(it floats silvered and dew-like from his lips in a breath of a name as he clasps his master to him and his limbs strike an earthquake through the mattress, and it tingles down his master's spine, a glede of light that streams through his master's core into a place the Vala has forgotten how to reach and sets him gasping, sets him _whole_ ) 

For this—Mairon has no words; it happens because it must, because it should, as buds bloom because it has never occurred to them not to. 

His master is ruined ruination and in their fractal charnel madness the scraps of him meld in a glorious _fit_. To alter, to take hammer in hand and pound into orderliness—once, Mairon might have craved it; even then he might have _known_ —only _he_ can obliterate mountains, and Mairon himself is no mountain at all. 

The Vala is flaking, _flaking_ , and his eyes are the dry bright hurting glitter of gemstones, and in his bones aches the world. Mairon has felt crooning tenderness toward beasts before, but never, never like this; he clings, and he murmurs, and with breast-bone aflame he knows that it _matters_ , it is his hand that soothes the mirror-maze hurt, it— 

His lord holds power that ravishes and batters and scoops in an obscene embrace everything it has cracked. His touch is fingertips that peel away muscle and tangle in blood vessels and wrench them out as a dripping, desiccating flower crown because for a day or for a season—it is beautiful. 

(Mairon makes sure to always be beautiful) 

He is— 

Words, words, words. Mairon can craft them, facet them, red and alluring as a ruby; but this is raw and the Maia has neither the skill nor the heart to tame it and it scrapes, and abrades, and _rips_ up his throat, froths bloody upon his lips; and when his master storms him into a kiss, he fears that he can taste it. 

(he can—he laves at the blood and smashes screams out of his Maia with his teeth until it wells again and again and again, fresh and eternal) 

He is— 

( _Melkor_ )  



End file.
